


The Curious Case of the Crowing Chanticleer

by PearlTopaz



Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Case, Chanticleer, Eyeballs, Murder, Painting, Typical Sherlock, rooster - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-07
Updated: 2017-04-07
Packaged: 2018-10-15 22:47:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10558990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PearlTopaz/pseuds/PearlTopaz
Summary: While visiting a Van Gogh exhibit, Sherlock recognizes another painting, which leads to a case... Chaos ensues.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This was actually an English assignment that I just liked enough to post! Please tell me what you think!

“Sherlock, what are you looking at? The main exhibit is that way.”

“John, this painting. It's extraordinary. I mean, I know it's only a parergon to the main show, but in my opinion, it outshines that entirely. The main show is boring, but this!” Words seemed to fail Sherlock as he looked at the old painting.

“Um, Sherlock?” John spoke somewhat frustratedly. “ That is a rooster. We came to see the Van Gogh exhibit, not a rather tired looking painting of a large rooster.”

“John. As always, you see but do not observe. You can paralogize until you're blue in the face, but you have not noticed any of the key features of this unique painting!”

John sighed, but stood next to Sherlock, looking at the picture and the placard next to it.

“Sherlock, this wasn't even by a painter. It's by some skier bloke. Point is, it's not important. Let's just go see the Van Gogh exhibit, please?”

“The correct term for his employment is a kanone, and it is important. It's not terribly well painted, true, but John. He didn't just paint any old rooster. He painted a chanticleer!”

“Sherlock, you cannot just make up words when you want to sound smart. Just because Anderson falls for it does not mean I will. I'm glad you like this painting, but we paid for tickets to the main exhibition, and it closes soon!”

“No, John! A chanticleer! An old, fabled rooster from medieval times. This particular one was told to make a calliopean crowing noise when it sensed death- and John, when the artist finished this painting, he was heard remarking on the loud rooster next door, which no one else could hear. The next week, he died. Heart attack. I always wondered about that, but I never saw fit to fly halfway across the world for it. But the painting, John, has come to me!”

John was a tad worried- Sherlock was not at all in his usual state of ataraxia and seemed somewhat volatile. He was probably just excited-it had been three weeks since his last case. Whatever kept him happy, he supposed.

“Sherlock, that's great, but we do have some Van Gogh paintings to see, so if this could wait, perhaps, an hour?”

“No, John! Van Gogh- Van Gogh is boring, but this is interesting! I’ve got to find Lestrade- you go to the exhibit. Have fun, I'll be fine, this won't take long!”

John watched helplessly as Sherlock sprinted down the hallway, past the signs on the walls proclaiming No Running, Please, and disappeared around the corner.

He should really be used to this by now. After all, when it came to Sherlock, The Work was always more important than anything else, even if it was a- he looked at the placard again- thirty-year-old cold case. Lovely. The killer was probably already dead themselves.  
__________________________________________________________________

Sherlock sat in his armchair in 221B, thinking about what Lestrade had told him. This case was indeed fascinating. He now rather regretted not just flying over to the Himalayas when he'd first heard of this case. But he had it now, and that was what mattered. Focus, Sherlock. He reminded himself. Then he closed his eyes and slipped into his mind palace. He needed to think.

And that was how John found him when he came home an hour later, having seen the Van Gogh paintings and then stopped at the store for more tea. Slumped against the chair, face blank, totally still. John, of course, was used to Sherlock’s silent periods, and knew better than to disturb him. Quietly, he put the groceries away, then went upstairs to take a shower. Sherlock was still in his chair, deep in his mind palace.

And that's how he was when John went upstairs for bed. Still totally silent.

When John came down in the morning, Sherlock was still there. He probably hadn't slept a wink. John rolled his eyes. He would have to take care of this- again. He made eggs, bacon, toast, and tea for two, sitting down across from Sherlock. He slid one plate and cup over to the man, silently enjoying his own. When he finished, he drained his tea and walked to the door for the newspaper. When he returned, he found Sherlock had absent-mindedly eaten the toast and drunk the tea. He smiled, leaving Sherlock to his deductions, knowing his friend would probably eat the rest of it without noticing too.  
__________________________________________________________________

Two days, five pieces of toast, three eggs, about six hundred biscuits, and countless cups of tea later, Sherlock rocketed into the air.

“I HAVE IT! JOHN! GET IN HERE! WE’RE GOING TO THE ART MUSEUM!”

John dropped the mug he had been holding. It fell and broke into approximately a million pieces. John groaned.

“SHERLOCK, YOU GIT! THAT WAS FROM MIKE!”

“JOHN, THE MUG COST LESS THAN TEN POUNDS, AND IT WAS REGIFTED ANYWAY. NOW HURRY UP!”

“FINE!”

Sherlock was bouncing on the balls of his feet impatiently when John entered the kitchen, having cleaned up the massive mess upstairs.

“John, that took far, far, far, far too long. You are slow. Almost as slow as Mycroft. Honestly. We need to go!”

“Sherlock, this entire situation is breaking up like glass. We could get mugged at this time of night. We could lose something that was important to us, perhaps. Something we might dearly miss."

“Oh, very funny, John, very funny. Very clever. Very clever indeed. A very nice equivoque. Congratulations. Now, let's GO, ALREADY!”  
__________________________________________________________________

Sherlock was inspecting the painting again, this time with a magnifying glass. He seemed to be inspecting the paint.

Anderson, hovering in the background, making nasty comments. Donovan complaining about how late it was. Lestrade quieted both, sending them back to the car to get a forensics kit for Sherlock. No one missed Donovan’s muttered _freak_ as she walked out of the room.

Sherlock muttered something to Lestrade, then rushed out of the room. In twenty seconds he was back, holding a book. He flipped through it for a second, comparing a picture in the book to the painting. Then he threw it over his shoulder, ignoring

John’s outraged cry when it whacked him in the shoulder.

“Lestrade, I know what happened.” Sherlock dramatically declared, flourishing his hands.

“Sherlock, it's bloody one am. You better know what happened, or I'll skin you, I will. I need my sleep.”

“Never fear, Lestrade. You can quickly arrest the man you need to- Bernard Salunding. He is seventy two years old, mind. Be gentle. Although not too gentle. He murdered his brother thirty years ago, after all.”

“What?! Sherlock! Explain!” Lestrade burst out, irritated that Sherlock hadn't thought that pertinent until now.

“Look, Lestrade. Look at this painting. You see the cracks and lines on the surface? Those are called the craquelure, and they form as paint ages. Not surprisingly, each type of paint makes slightly different patterns. I checked the specific type supposedly used in this painting. It would make starburst patterns around the edges. But, as you can see-” he handed the magnifying glass to Lestrade. “As you can see, this made more of a lightning pattern. Typical of another, more common paint. But it's an American paint, one supposedly not used in this painting. Now look here. See that shadow? It's called an umbra. If it was genuinely painted by our semi-famous skier here, it would be painted in a circular motion, darkening at the edges. It's a unique technique found in all of his paintings. But here, again, the forger got lazy. They stuck to more traditional methods of painting. Not good enough.”

“Forger? Sherlock, honestly, you could have mentioned that earlier!”

“Didn't I?” Sherlock seemed surprised. “Huh. Odd. Anyway, as I was showing you, this painting is a forgery. And around the world, there are hundreds like it, all forged by Bernard Salunding. All supposedly unique. All costing approximately a quarter million each. Yes, Bernard certainly made his money back. And more. Honestly, what a clever idea. Murder your brother, pretend you don't hear the rooster to scare the villagers, then forge his painting repeatedly while he's not there to stop you. I should try it sometime…” Seeing John’s expression, he balked. “Joking. Obviously.”

“But Sherlock, how… actually, I don't really want to know how you figured all that out. Let's just go home, mate.”  
__________________________________________________________________

“Sherlock, what should I call it?”

“What?”

“The case! For my blog! What should I call it?”

“John, you know how I feel about that ridiculous blog of yours. I don't care. Call it the Rooster Rucket for all I care. Just don't bother me! I'm testing the boiling point of liquified eyeballs!”

“Okay, we're eating at Angelo’s tonight.. Not the Rooster Rucket. Very funny. Maybe the Chanticleer Case? Or…”

John typed up what he decided to call the Curious Case of the Crowing Chanticleer, even adumbrating a little sketch of the rooster for his blog. After posting it, he went to get some tea. He opened the cupboard, but the kettle as well as the pots and pans were gone. He looked down, only to see a gloopy white goop, dotted with-were those irises?!

“SHERLOCK!”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Please tell me what you think! Kudos and comments always make my day!


End file.
